


An Unexpected Twist

by Damoiselle



Series: Little Miss Stark [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Kid Fic, Loki Redemption, Multi, Single Parents, Tony/OFC (past)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-07 08:19:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4256175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damoiselle/pseuds/Damoiselle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony's life is thrown into disarray when a one-night stand becomes a lifelong commitment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oops. Baby.

“Sooo,” Tony drawled, “This seems sufficiently awkward. Should we try doing the talking thing now or just skip to the part where I'm the horrible, career-ending bastard that’s ruined your life? And then you can figure out how much that’s worth - in dollars - and we can stop trying to pretend that we can tolerate each other. Let alone like each other. I mean really, Irish, we can’t even be in the same room without me having to replace something...”

Why was it always the crazy ones? Up until a few months ago Tony Stark had, by some miracle, managed to avoid procreating. Then the worst had happened. He’d had one drink too many and fallen into bed with a former pageant girl with no means of protection, which was so unlike him! Well, perhaps not the first bit but the latter? He was the king of contraception. So how was it that he found himself cohabitating with a pregnant, and somewhat argumentative, young blonde instead of continuing on with his crazy - but comparatively simple - bachelor lifestyle? Not that the woman was _entirely_ unpleasant. Brenna Quinn did have a few redeeming qualities - legs that went on for days, alluring green eyes and an accent that did terrible things to him.

_Terrible things._

Or at least it had. Now it seemed that every time she opened her mouth he found himself searching out sanctuary. An open window, perhaps, from which to hurl himself in the hope that the oncoming traffic would finish whatever the drop didn't? The only thing stopping him was the little person she was harbouring in her womb. A tiny little person that needed them. Needed _him_ or, at least, that’s what he liked to tell himself. What it really needed - if he was to be entirely honest - was proper parents. Not an alcoholic father and a mean-spirited banshee. This kid needed to feel like they mattered, like they were loved, but the way things were going they weren't even going to make it to the third trimester.  Especially not with Brenna smoking like a chimney and ignoring doctor’s orders.

The banshee in question pushed a few blonde curls from her eyes as she turned to glare back at him. It was obvious the feeling, this loathing, was mutual but what were they to do? Beyond arguing? There had been a time to turn and run. For whatever reason - only God knew why - they hadn't. At first Tony had thought they were both on the same page, that they were both eager to birth the kid and offer them the best damned life they could manage. Now he was starting to wonder if she wasn't just waiting to take him for all he was worth. Every day it was the same tired routine. She’d bitch about something or other else. He’d try to sympathise, fail and then they’d be at each other’s throats again. It wasn't Tony’s idea of a good time and, worse, he was relatively sure it wasn't great for the little Stark-to-be. That’s what prompted him to try and settle things. Once and for all.

“Hey, don’t give me that look-” Brenna opened her mouth, obviously ready to offer her two cents, but Tony wasn't about to let her cut him off again. Not until he’d had his say. “I'm serious. Give me a number. Whatever you want, Irish, whatever it'll take to get you out of my hair because this?” He motioned between the two of them a little too enthusiastically before moving to pouring himself a drink. “It’s not good. It’s not even _close_ to good. It’s at least three buses, a long walk and a taxi from good! You get that, right?” And that was putting it mildly. He wasn't sure either of them had managed to get a decent night’s sleep since Brenna had broken the news.

Not that he was in any position to know how well she was sleeping. The two had decided that separate living quarters was best. Probably the only thing they’d managed to get right so far. Still, she didn't look particularly well-rested and the amount of antacids the woman could down in one week spoke volumes. He’d have sympathised, or at least he liked to think he’d have sympathised, if she wasn't so damned stubborn. Always refusing to take any advice he had to offer - medical or otherwise - and sometimes even rejecting it out of what he could only guess was spite. Tony was more than willing to admit that he’d helped bring about what she so affectionately referred to as the end of life as she knew it but the key word there was helped.

“Fuck you, Tony.” A fairly common reaction. “So, what? You’re ready to throw us out on our arses, are you? So much for all that shite about happy families, huh?” Tony contemplated his whiskey a moment - served neat - before pushing it aside. For once he was going to try to do the right thing and that meant keeping a clear head. At least for the time being.

“No, I'm ready to throw _you_ out on your arse. Junior can stay. We can - I don’t know - go for joint custody? Visits? Something? Hell, you can leave her here for all I care!” No sooner had the words passed his lips then he felt the familiar weight of regret settle upon him. What was he saying? He wasn't fit to baby-sit, let alone raise a kid from scratch, but it was too late.

He could see the little gears turning, her eyes narrowing as if considering what he’d said, and before he could take it all back she’d uttered a disgusted “ _You can have her_.”

And just like that his word came crumbling down around him.

What the hell was he going to do with a child? How was he going to juggle fatherhood with business and debauchery? Maybe a nanny? Several nannies? Child protective services? She smirked, more than happy to find pleasure in his panic, and went back to ignoring him in favour of her Mills and Boone. This did little, if anything, to ease his troubled mind. Had he just inadvertently purchased a baby? _Was that even legal?_ “...you’re serious?” he near-croaked, glaring at the back of her head in disbelief as she silently turned to the next page. “You’d just sell her out? Just like that? You barely even know me and, I mean, do I look like a responsible adult to you? Really?” No response. That probably didn't need a response, still, what on Earth was Brenna thinking? “Do you even care?!”

Apparently not. Tony reached for his glass. There was no way he was getting through this without a little help. Or a lot of help. Maybe an entire liquor cabinet’s worth of help? “How do you know it’s a girl anyway?” He paused, equal parts curious and frustrated. Had she deliberately waited until the glass was at his lips to ask that or was it pure coincidence? “Huh?” Brenna sighed. If he had to take a wild guess it’d have been that she was rolling her eyes, feigning exasperation and oozing condescension.

“You said _her_ , Genius. How do you know it’s a girl?” Again he found himself staring into nothingness, frozen in the moment, until she offered up her disgust in the form of a undignified grunt and went back to her novel. The truth of it was that he _didn't_ know.

“What does it matter? I thought we were auctioning her off to the highest bidder? Changed your mind already?” _Please God, oh please_ \- he thought - _let her say yes._

“No,”

_Damn._

“I was just curious is all. Like I said, you want this baby so much? She’s yours. I'll sign the papers tomorrow-” He raised a hand, motioning for her to stop before interrupting with an unusually timid

“I don’t think you can actually do that until-” but she didn't seem willing to take no for an answer.

“But you, you put some money in my account - enough to get me back on my feet again - and after that? Well, you can rot for all I care. I'm done with this place, this country, and I'm done with you Mr. Stark.” Before she could continue on to berate him Tony made the conscious decision to down his whiskey. Anything to soften the blow.

“C’mon Irish, don’t be like that-”

She slammed her book shut and he knew the matter was settled. Anthony Edward Stark, playboy extraordinaire, was going to be a father. Strike that - a _single_ father. There wasn't enough money in the world to buy his way out of it. Not without leaving himself morally bankrupt anyway. Fortunately there was enough whiskey - and enough time to imbibe it - to help him deal with it for the time being. Making a mental note to keep his trap shut in the future - and avoid taking on any additional responsibilities he found himself utterly unprepared for - the engineer removed the whiskey bottle from its home behind the bar and silently marched himself down to the workshop. Hopefully JARVIS and a few dozen unfinished projects could help console him until the alcohol kicked in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first piece of fan-fiction I've written in almost twelve years. Be gentle! Otherwise all constructive criticism is very welcome. I'm continuing the fic either way but let me know if you like it and I'll be sure to update here.
> 
> Many thanks to my lovely couch monster, Nyara, for proof-reading.


	2. The Beginning is the End is the End is the Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony Stark has encountered a tiny baby!  
> Tiny baby used Awwww.  
> It's super effective!

“No, no, they’re not telling me anything just - no, I know - okay, yeah… uh-huh…”

Tony paced the hospital corridors, phone pinned between his shoulder and his ear, attempting to reassure Brenna’s dear old mother in Ireland - or was she attempting to reassure him? - as the staff continued to ignore him. It had been a few hours now. He could only assume they’d grown weary of his antics. “Okay. No, you’re right. ‘Course. No, no - that really isn’t necessary Siobhán - I think we'll be okay here, I mean, we will right? Yeah, yeah of course. I’ll let you know. Okay. Okay, you too. I'll have someone meet you at the terminal. Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm, okay… okay I'll see you when you get here. Mmkay, Bye.” And just like that he was alone again. Left to ponder the fates of both banshee and baby. Not that he cared for said banshee, not really, but all things said and done she was still the mother of his (possibly deceased) child. “Well, shit.” At least things couldn't get any worse.

“Mr. Stark?” Pivoting on his left heel, eyebrows raised, he turned to find himself face-to-face with a rather striking young female doctor. Fortunately he was in no mood to flirt. Instead he retrieved his phone, clapped it shut and pocketed it as his gaze wandered to the entrance of the one room he’d been actively forbidden to enter.

“It’s bad, isn’t it? It’s got to be bad, I mean, you’re not smiling or anything and is that blood? You've got a bit of…”He was not going to faint. His company manufactured weapons, supplied armies, and he was not going to pass out because there was a little bit of blood on this woman’s scrubs. Even if it did look relatively fresh. Maybe it wasn't even blood. It could have been ketchup. A really dark, watery and inappropriately placed ketchup stain. She held up both hands in an attempt to calm him. Obviously this one wasn't aware of his reputation for being decidedly _not_ calm. Yet.

“Deep breaths. As I was saying, Mr. Stark, your wife-”

“She’s not my wife.” Something about the haste in which the words tumbled off his tongue seemed to have caught her off guard. The good doctor took a moment, brows knitting, before trying again.

“Your _partner_ has been taken down to recovery, she'll probably be there an hour or so, but - if you’d like - you’re welcome to come through and see your daughter?” Tony froze. She’d said daughter. Not dead - _not dying_ \- just daughter. He had a daughter.

“So, it’s a girl then? Huh.” Brenna must have been fuming. She was probably cursing him out the moment they ripped the little one from her womb. Not because she didn't want a little girl but because Tony, for some reason, did. Subconsciously anyway. One could only hope they were pumping her full of happy-making chemicals. Otherwise the staff were in for a real treat. Deciding it was probably best to cover his bases, and avoid any possible lawsuits given her tendency to lash out at a moment’s notice, the billionaire made a mental note to offer them a generous donation as recompense. A very generous donation. Maybe a whole new wing.

“Three pounds and four ounces,” the woman confirmed with a happy nod. Tony wasn't all that sure what she seemed so pleased about. The average birth weight was - from what he’d read - usually somewhere between five and ten pounds. Then this hadn't exactly been a run-of-the-mill birth. This baby was almost ten weeks early. Three pounds was probably still better than two pounds, or one, or worse - none.

“She’s okay though, right? You know? Ten fingers? Ten toes? Lungs?” Lungs were very good. Obviously realising that Tony was going to have more questions than she did time the doctor motioned briefly for him to accompany her and he did.

“At the moment we've got her in NICU - that’s the Neonatal Intensive Unit -” He knew that. “-until she’s a little more developed. As is she does need a little help breathing and we’ve detected a faint heart murmur so we'll have to run some more tests. That’s nothing to worry about though. These sort of things have been known to resolve themselves with time. All things considered, she’s doing a lot better than we’d expected. With a lot of love and a bit of luck I imagine you'll be able to take her home in a few weeks.” Love and luck? Is that what he was paying the hospital for or? He bit back on his words. Likely they were more a product of caffeine withdrawal than any real ill-feeling towards the doctor.

As they passed through a set of large sliding doors he braced himself for the worst. He’d been on the Internet. Most of his time pacing had, in fact, been spent pestering the staff for updates, on the phone to Brenna’s mother or browsing the web for information on premature babies. The latter could easily be compared to Googling medical symptoms and being told that your itchy throat was cancer. Google image, especially, had proved both heart-breaking and anxiety-inducing. Tony wasn't naive. He didn't trust everything he read and knew well enough to understand that every situation was unique. There was every chance his daughter was going to be fine, healthy and happy, and all perusing pictures of tiny little human beings was going to do was make him nervous.

Unfortunately once he’d started searching it became near impossible to stop. It was like watching a car crash in slow motion - you knew it was going to be terrible, that you didn't _want_ to see it, but for some reason morbid curiosity demanded you keep your eyes peeled. The terror he felt as they neared the NICU - the signs on the walls were kind enough to keep reminding him how close they were getting - must have been written all over his face because the doctor, having glanced back, quickly took pity and offered conversation to pry him from his thoughts.

“Shock of black hair the likes of which I've never seen, your little one, and feisty too. Early or not she seemed eager to make her entrance. ” Or to make her exit. If he’d been subjected to Brenna’s shrillness for that long he’d have been busting down the doors too.

“I imagine she'll do just fine, Mr. Stark.” He nodded, somewhat absently, distracted by the tiny little incubators that had come into view and struggling to find anything familiar about their inhabitants.

“Here we are. May I introduce you to little Miss Quinn.” Quinn? Had Brenna changed her mind?

“Oh, sorry, it’s procedure. We always label the babies using their mother’s surname. Less chance of confusion.” That made sense. It still hurt though. He hadn't even thought about surnames. Would they give her his? Or would that be too obvious? Little Miss Stark. For some reason he liked the way that sounded.

Finally they came to a stop and so did the rest of the world. At least that was how it seemed. There was no longer a doctor, a hospital, nothing - just Tony Stark and this delicate little creature with tubes taped to her face, circular little monitors stuck to her torso and, yes, a shock of black hair. She was laying peacefully. Eyes closed, knees curling up to her chest and her tiny little thumb pressed to her lips. Before he knew what he was doing the awestruck engineer had reached out to her, placing his hand gently atop the clear plastic of the incubator, as that familiar stinging sensation made itself known behind his eyes.

“I'll leave you two alone.” Had she not already?

“...sure.” he muttered, not really paying her much mind. In that moment everything had changed. He found himself contemplating the argument he’d had with Brenna and every decision he’d made since that day. Sure, he could hand this little bundle of mixed-emotions over to Siobhán and go about his life as if nothing had ever happened.

Keep on the way he had been before his life got overly complicated.

That had been the plan. Reach out to Grandma and see if she’s willing - which she had been - but could he really send his kid, the only kid he had, over to Ireland? And be happy with nothing more than the occasional letter and a few photographs? She was so small. What if there were other health issues they didn't know about? Was the Irish health system cut out to give her the kind of care she’d need? The kind of care she deserved? And what if she was too clever for the school systems there? Or she was bullied? What sort of person would she become?

As he stressed over every possible scenario his daughter could ever encounter the babe slowly wriggled her fingers, pushing her thumb beyond her lip and sucking for a second or two before settling again. That was the moment that Tony knew that he was completely and utterly screwed.

“Hey there, Half-Pint,” he cooed quietly. A weak smile playing upon his lips as her tiny fingers wriggled in response to the sound of his voice.

“I guess you’re stuck with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, just wow. Thanks for all the love on the prelude. Absolutely gob-smacked. This chapter didn't have the luxury of a proof-reader so feel free to critique. 
> 
> -rolls into the sun-


	3. The Name Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What's in a name? that which we call a rose  
> By any other name would smell as sweet.”  
> ― William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

“So,” Siobhán began, gazing up from the sink with a wet dish cloth in one hand and a dirty dish in the other. Tony wasn't all that sure what she had against dishwashers. Or electric kettles. Or even microwaves. It was like she’d stepped straight out of the Stone Age and into one of the most sophisticated mansions in Malibu without even realising it. He wasn't about to start complaining, however, because she was also the only person in Malibu that could figure out how to keep his two-month-old daughter from wailing.

“Have you decided on a name?”

 _No_ , he thought, _not since you asked me two hours ago_. Why, he wondered, was everybody in such a rush to slap a label on the poor girl? Wasn't it enough that she was breathing?

He bit his tongue - as he had learned it was preferable to trying to win an argument with anyone from Dublin - and shook his head. Obadiah had tried to convince him to use a name that would look good in the press. Thankfully she was _she_. That meant Howard was out of the question. His mother’s name - Maria - had been tossed around too. It was a nice premise - in theory - but the last thing he wanted to do was look at his daughter and see his dead mother. No, parental names were definitely out of the question.

Siobhán had flat-out refused to let him name the little bundle of hiccups for anybody in her family. Apparently they weren't a very close-knit group. That left him with no real options and a thousand possibilities. The worst part was knowing that if he screwed this up she’d spend the rest of her life suffering for it. Unless she took after her mother in which case she’d spend the rest of her life making _him_ suffer for it. A terrifying thought indeed. “Shame. For a young girl to be without a name so long Ant-”

No.

“ Tony” he corrected, but either she didn't hear him or she didn't care.

“-hony. It’s bad luck.”  

“Uh, hmm, don’t know if you noticed but-”  She stopped washing the dishes, looking up at the billionaire with one eyebrow raised and daring him to continue. He did not.The last thing he wanted was to be beaten to death by a small Irish woman. The media would have a field day.

“I'm just saying. This hasn't exactly been a walk in the park, you know? Seems like that anything that can go wrong has, twice over, so you'll have to forgive me if naming her is the last thing on my mind. Plus it all seems very…”

Final. Almost as if naming her made it all real. He wasn't sure he was ready for that yet.

“I don’t know.”  

The sound of his crockery clinking was one that brought him a great deal of relief. In the few short weeks that she’d been with him Tony had managed to figure out what it was that made Siobhán tick. He knew what he could say around her, what he probably ought not say and, of course, what would probably get him killed. That didn't mean he always had the self-control to keep his mouth shut but it was a start. Clinking dishes were good because it meant she hadn't seen fit to pick up a frying pan, or worse, a knife.

“Getting cold feet then?”

Tony made a point of filling his mouth with toast before she’d finished her sentence. What was it with the Irish anyway? They could say things you didn't want to hear in an accent that made you forget that you didn't want to hear it. He wanted to say that he wasn't getting cold feet, that he’d made his decision and was sticking to it. There was nothing he wanted more. The problem there was that he still wasn't sure he was cut out to be a father.

His little mini-Stark had been home for almost a month now and so far he’d done nothing but screw up. He couldn't get her to take a bottle, bath her or even get her to sleep in the evenings. If Siobhán wasn't around he’d probably have handed her off to the nearest passer-by by now. No amount of medical texts, professional opinions or crunchy mother websites had helped.

Unfortunately toast was not infinite and after a while he found he was just grinding his teeth and quickly swallowed. “Yes. No. I don’t know. How about we wait until I get something right and go from there. JARVIS?” There was no way he was going to finish this conversation. Not until he had something useful to add. As it was all he could offer was sass and non-committal grunts.

_“Yes, sir?”_

Tony glanced over to Siobhán who appeared to have lost interest in the discussion and moved on to wiping the counters. Why did he even have a maid? Did he have a maid? He hadn’t seen her since Siobhán moved in. Probably disagreed with the uniform.

“How’s the little poop-machine doing?” Siobhán was right. Eventually he was going to run out of nicknames and have to decide on something more permanent.

_“Sleeping soundly, sir. Would you like me to wake the young madam?”_

It took every ounce of self-restraint he had to keep from panicking and shouting his response.

“No! No, no, no. JARVIS, buddy, we never wake the sleeping baby. Never ever. No way, no how, not happening. No.” That clarified, he proceeded on to what he’d actually wanted to say.

“Keep an eye on her. I'm going down to tinker for a while. Siobhán?” The older woman rolled her eyes, drying her hands on a tea towel and moving towards the guest room.

“I'm going to take this opportunity to nap, Anthony. I'm not as young as I used to be, you know?” He couldn't help but feel that her comments were a little pointed. Siobhán was lovely but she wasn't one to beat around the bush. Said she didn't have enough time to waste being subtle. “You know where to find me if you need me.” 

That he did. “‘Course. We'll be fine, you go do that sleeping thing you do.” It was easy to forget how old the woman was. Too easy. Although he’d never been brave enough to ask she looked to be in her late sixties. That, coupled with the fact that she - like her daughter - liked to smoke like a chimney, left Tony a little uneasy as to her future. At least - unlike her daughter - she was considerate enough to keep the habit to herself. He watched as she disappeared around the corner, contemplating her mortality and what it might mean in the long run. She’d assured him that her offer to take the baby girl back to Dublin still stood but what would happen should she pass?

He sure as hell didn't want Brenna using his daughter like a human credit card.

Making his way down to the workshop he resolved to at least make a list. Worst case scenario he collected a handful of the least offensive names and played eeny-meeny until he had a winner.

* * *

_“Christine, meaning-”_

“Nix it.”  
  
_“Christmas, from the name of the-”_  
  
“Wait, that’s a thing? Seriously?”

Tony looked up from his workbench, one eyebrow raised as he contemplated just how far humanity had fallen.

_“It would seem so, sir.”_

“Merry Christmas, Christmas. Oh, hey, all my Christmas’ have come at once! Not happening. _Nix it._ ”

It had been a little over two hours and, with a little help from JARVIS, he’d managed to make his way through to the third letter of the alphabet baby-name wise. He was actually feeling pretty good about it. Not that he was any closer to making his decision but at least he knew what he didn’t like. Nothing virtue-based, no flowers, no jewels and nothing holiday-related. Tony had also made the conscious decision to avoid any names with creative alternate spelling. There was something he had read that had proven particularly helpful. A woman in one of the many forums he’d browsed had mentioned that she’d just imagined whatever name she was considering written on a diploma or university degree. If it didn’t look good than it probably wasn’t.

 _“Christobel, mean-”_  
  
“Let’s just skip anything with the word Christ in it, hey buddy?”  
  
“Of course, sir. Chyna, meaning-”   
  
“The country? Next.”  
  
_“Ciannait, means ‘ancient’ in Gaelic.”_  
  
“Not feeling it.”

Just as he was about to call it quits for the day JARVIS finally managed to pick out a name that he didn't associate with anything inappropriate - like former flames - and kind of struck a chord with him.   
  
_“Ciara, feminine form of Ciarán, meaning ‘dark-haired’ in Irish Gaelic. It was also the name of Saint Ciara, a seventh-century Irish saint venerated by the Roman Catholic church.”_

That ticked a lot of boxes. It was Irish, it had Catholic origins - that meant grandma would surely approve - and it was very no-nonsense. Nothing too flowery, too feminine, but not altogether masculine either. It just was. A woman with that kind of name could be sweet as a daisy or shatterproof. It was definitely a name he could imagine gracing any future achievements.

“How’s it spelt?”

_“Charlie - India - Alpha - Romeo - Alpha, sir.”_

“Traditionally or alternatively? You know how I feel ab-”  
  
_“Traditional Irish Gaelic, sir.”_  
  
“Huh. Add it to the list. Actually, send it to the top will you?”  
  
_“Of course, sir.”_  

He also liked that fact that its meaning wasn't all metaphorical and poetic. It was accurate. You didn't get much darker hair than that which grew upon his daughter’s head. The nurses had warned that it might fall out and grow through a completely different colour but so far it seemed to be holding up okay apart from the occasional bout of horribly awesome bed-head.

 _“Cicely, meaning-”_  
  
“Nix.”

Tony sighed. It was going to be a long day. 

* * *

Tony had just finished explaining to JARVIS exactly what it was about the name ‘Kinborough’ that he didn't like when a succession of short beeps signified the waking of the beast. The small, smelly and drooly beast that wasn't really a beast at all. If his alarm was sounding that could only mean that Siobhán’s nap had gone on a little longer than he’d first expected. JARVIS seemed to anticipate this train of thought and quickly chimed in with _“Should I wake Madame Quinn, sir?”_ which felt like a bit of a slap in the face all things considered.

He’d spent years criticising his own father for palming him off on the help and here he was, expecting Siobhán to pick up the slack. No. There was no way that Tony was going to become that kind of dad. Even if it meant his sanity he would figure out this whole baby thing - once and for all!

“No, leave the old girl be. I’ve got this JARV.”

_“Sir, if I may, do you think that entirely wise?”_

Ouch.

“JARVIS. She’s a baby. What’s the worst that could happen?” Before the artificially intelligent computer system could respond he added: “Rhetorical question.” It took a few minutes to remove his safety equipment, check that everything that should be secured was and finally make his way up to the nursery. Upon entering the room it became quite clear what it was that had upset her. The smell was unmistakable. 

“Wow, Half-Pint. Just wow. I got nothing,” he laughed, making his way over to her cot and marvelling at how the only real expressions she seemed to have to date were all misery-related. No smiling. Just a wide mouth - all the better to howl at him - and a severe case of scrunchy face.

“Come on. It’s not that bad, right? We can fix this.”

He reached down, ensuring that her head and neck were supported, and gently lifted her from the crib. Apparently startled by his sudden appearance she became still, almost silent, tiny little blue eyes widening to gaze upon him as her chin wobbled slightly. Almost as if she was attempting to suckle.

“Oh, stinky _and_ hungry?” Figured. Still, he could manage a quick diaper change and a bottle. How hard could it be really? As soon as he’d heard that Ciara was ready to come home he’d spared no expense in getting her nursery properly equipped. There wasn’t a baby-related gizmo or gadget that he didn’t own. Baby wipe warmer? Check.  Baby food maker? He had one. Diaper pail? Of course. That meant, of course, that across the room from the crib was a change table - stocked to the high heavens with anything and everything one could ever need for just such an occasion! He held the little one close for a moment before finally placing her upon the changing pad.

She did not approve. The wailing started up again, little legs flailing as he struggled to undo the press studs on her onesie whilst keeping a firm hand on her torso. It would have been easy enough to give up. To ask JARVIS to wake the lady of the house and ask for some help but instead he decided upon another tactic.

“JARVIS, little help?” 

_“Would you like-”_

“No, no, just - I don’t know? Maybe some music?”

What was it they said? Music soothed the savage beast? That saying had been around for forever and a day. There had to be some truth behind it or so he hoped as he finally managed to pull the bottom of her onesie away to deal with the dirty diaper in question. Just as he was reaching for the wipes an instrumental version of The Eagle’s ‘Hotel California’ began to play and his baby girl stilled. That worked.

“Good work, buddy” Tony smiled, watching as his daughter’s wide eyes  moved to locate the source of the music. Perhaps she had more than one setting after all. Upset and inquisitive. They’d have to work on the whole smiling thing later. As it was he was just pleased he’d managed to get through a diaper change with little to no drama. Had he just been working himself up this whole time?

“Where’d you find that anyway? I mean, no, it’s good but wow.”

_“You made a playlist, sir”_

Had he? It wasn’t unheard of for him to have tinkered with something like that whilst drunk. Although it had proved helpful today perhaps it was better if he cut down on the whole drinking thing. The last thing he wanted was to be that kind of role-model to his kid. By the time the instrumental had finished Tony had successfully finished changing his daughter and disposed of the evidence. The next step was to feed her. This was something he’d always struggled with.

If he hadn’t been so scared of Brenna boozing their baby up he might have asked her to breastfeed but, as it was, she hadn’t been able to give her bad habits up during the pregnancy and wasn’t likely to be any more dedicated now than she was then. That and he enjoyed the peace and quiet that came with not having her in his life. Instead he’d managed to find someone generous enough to donate some clean milk - he’d checked - in exchange for a reasonable salary. It seemed a little suss but, given her rough start in life, he needed to know he was giving his kid every advantage.

He made his way to the kitchen, cradling her close and thanking all that was holy that Siobhán had left the bottle-warmer on the bench. If she’d put it away he’d have _had_ to wake her. Tony had no idea where those sort of things lived. A shuffling sound from the hall told him that Siobhán was probably up and about. It didn’t matter. This was his opportunity to prove to himself that he was every bit as capable as the next man, or woman, when it came to raising a kid. Or, at the very least, keeping a kid alive.

After a few minutes of rocking - he’d seen Siobhán do something similar and decided to give it a go - the timer on the bottle warmer sounded and he eagerly moved to retrieve it, but before he could get the bottle anywhere near her lips he heard a tired voice from across the room.   
  
“You need to test it first. Make sure it’s not too hot.”   
  
His heart sunk. Had he really almost burnt her? Without even considering it? Quick to catch on Siobhán, complete with fluffy robe and slippers, moved closer and held out her wrist to demonstrate. 

“Just dab some on your wrist. You’ll know if it’s too hot. And don’t look so disheartened, Anthony. The thing about being a parent? We are all terrible at it. Every single one of us. The only real difference is just how terrible you want to be. You keep trying and eventually you’ll be okay, yes? Just like your silly machines-”   
  
Again, how could she be so mean whilst still sounding so sweet?

“-If you do not tinker, they do not improve, yes?”

That actually made a lot more sense than he was willing to admit. Eager to prove himself the engineer did exactly as instructed and was happy to find that it was only lukewarm. Not that he was questioning Siobhán's judgement but it was still nice to know that he wouldn’t have scalded the poor babe if not for her timely intervention.

“What do you think of Ciara?” he asked casually, gently nudging the bottle against his daughter’s bottom lip. “Name-wise I mean. Irish spelling, of course, but I was thinking that might be nice. Links to her heritage and all that good stuff. And only two syllables so, you know, easy enough to teach her when she’s all verbal-like…”

Siobhán considered this a moment before nodding in agreement.

“I had a cousin named Ciara,” she responded and Tony was just waiting to hear how said cousin was the spawn of Satan or something equally disturbing. Instead she continued on to add: “Good girl. Stayed in school, became a doctor which wasn't an easy thing for a women to do in that day and age Anthony. Not in Ireland.”

As far as legacies went that was actually a pretty good one. Work hard and aim high. He could see himself relaying that to little Ciara. A grin played at his lips as the young baby finally found a nice latch on the bottle and eagerly consumed its  contents. He’d never been able to get her this calm before. What was it about today that was so different to every other time he’d tried his hand at the whole child-rearing thing?

“What do you think, Ciara? Do we roll with it?”

Ciara wasn't a great conversationalist. They were going to have to work on that.

“Yeah, I think we'll roll with that. Ciara Stark. Ciara Maria Stark? No. Still creepy. Huh, guess I've got to think up a middle name now, huh?” And here he was thinking he was finally done with the whole name game thing. 

“Antonia?” Siobhán suggested. “Your business man - the bald one - he wants you to use something the press will like, no? So Antonia. As a first name it might seem a little obnoxious but as a secondary name I think it works.”

He could have kissed her then and there if not for the fact that he was holding a baby and she was old enough to be his mother. Finally, she had an opinion!

“Ciara Antonia Stark,” he tested it, rolling the words over his tongue and deciding that he liked the sound. “Guess that’s it. I’ll file the paperwork ASAP. You happy with that, Half-Pint?”

She didn't look unhappy.

“You know that thing I said earlier? Strike that. My feet are toasty warm, thank you very much.”

Siobhán chuckled, moving to put the kettle on the stove and shaking her head as if she’d known that all along. It was odd to feel as if he was being out-smarted by a woman that had once confessed that her biggest claim to fame was making the best damned soda bread in Dublin.

“I knew you’d figure it out eventually, Anthony.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah. I am completely and utterly overwhelmed by the love this has received so far.  
> Here, have another chapter. It hasn't been proof-read but meh. 
> 
> Will edit anything that needs editing later. 
> 
> Note: Ciara is pronounced KEAR-RAH. Yay Irish!  
> Also, lullaby version of "Hotel California" - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WQ3RHJv6dQQ


	4. In the hearts and lips of children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony briefly contemplates reuniting with the mother of his child. Briefly.

“Heard anything from Brenna?”

Why? Why was he doing this to himself? Tony couldn't even tolerate the woman - let alone bring himself to like her - and yet there he was, sniffing after her like some love-struck young pup. It wasn't that he wanted her. Not really. The truth was far more pathetic. Every time he saw Ciara, every time he praised her cleverness or rocked her to sleep, he couldn't help but wonder if he was doing her a great disservice. If she wouldn't benefit from having a mother. Brenna was no Martha Stewart but she was the girl’s biological mother. Nothing would ever change that - not even science - so what right did he have to deny her?  

Siobhán felt differently. She’d warned him against trying to pursue the volatile wench that was her daughter. “ _A mother’s love is unconditional,_ ” she’d tell him. “ _But her respect is not._ ”

And any respect Siobhán had once held for her daughter seemed to have disappeared the moment she’d taken Tony’s money and run. All the way back to Ireland and then back again when her bank account ran dry. Fortunately his bodyguard and long-time friend, Harold “Happy” Hogan, was clever enough to keep her from getting any further than the front gate. Apparently he’d grown rather fond of little Ciara and didn't much like the idea of some volatile drunk disturbing her during nap-time. Needless to say Happy was getting quite the bonus when Christmas rolled around.

“Last I heard she was taking up with some would-be politician,” Siobhán murmured, obviously more interested in her crossword puzzle than she was in discussing the issue further. Tony knew that she was right. If he tried to reignite what he’d had with Brenna she’d grab him by the wallet, lead him into the deepest reaches of Hades and happily leave him there the moment something more promising caught her eye. He’d survive it - he always did - but he couldn't guarantee that Ciara would escape unharmed. “Let it go, Anthony. She’s no good for you, for either of you, and that isn’t likely to change any time soon. I’ve wasted a lot of time hoping.”

The problem with Brenna was that she wasn't as vacuous as she played at being. Though she was quite content to laugh and flirt when the going was good, and the money flowing freely, the moment things got complicated out came the claws. Although she couldn’t wound Tony in the traditional sense, not physically or financially, the woman could play him like a fiddle. Brenna knew how he felt about their daughter, how unsure he was when it came to his abilities as a father - and that woman could wield guilt like a battleaxe.

“You don’t want to be like me, Anthony.”  

Actually there _was_ a small part of him that wanted to be exactly like Siobhán, but he wasn't about to admit as much while sober. She was everything Ciara needed in her life - kind, wise, trustworthy and reliable. Tony liked to think he’d done a lot of maturing since becoming a father but he wasn’t sure he’d reached Siobhán’s level of parenting yet. It was true that he wasn't drinking quite as much as he used to, or partying, and although he’d remained true to his playboy reputation he never brought the girls he indulged with back to Malibu with him. Ciara didn't need to grow up thinking that kind of behaviour was okay. That and he wasn't entirely sure her grandmother wouldn't straight-out murder him if he did.

“Tony,” he corrected gently, again. “And I know. No, seriously, I do but-” Siobhán interrupted,  putting her finger to her lips and motioning for him to lower the volume. No sooner had he opened his mouth to respond than she was pointing to the small pile of blankets that was his one-year-old daughter. Apparently Ciara had fallen asleep halfway through construction of her very own pillow fort. Cute.

“Sorry, didn’t see her there.” But now that he’d noticed, it took a great deal of effort not to laugh. Somehow she’d managed to pass out with her face flat against the floor and her bottom raised high. After taking a few seconds to capture the moment - thank goodness for Stark technology - he spoke again, voice barely above a whisper. “Is this really okay? This whole 'single-parent-winging-it-and-hoping-for-the-best' thing? What am I going to do when she’s asking the sorts of questions I can’t answer? Questions that only a mother can answer? God knows I adore you but you’re not looking so great these days Siobhán, and I'm not really big on leaving these things to chance.”

Money? Yes. Daughter’s happily-ever-after? Not so much.

“There are plenty of fish-”

“In the sea? Yeah, I know. That’s exactly my problem.”

Tony Stark didn't have any issues when it came to reeling in fish, so to speak. It was just that every woman he’d ever met had only been interested in one of two things - his fame or his money. Those weren't the kind of women he wanted to raise his little girl with. He needed someone stronger than that, somebody that Ciara could look up to and possibly even emulate because God only knew he wasn't a good role-model. Did he have to love her? Well, that would be nice but he was willing to make sacrifices if it meant Ciara’s happiness.

His little girl was growing so fast. Most of his days were spent watching her. Admiring the manner in which her now green eyes followed him across the room, watching every move he made and storing it away if only to emulate it at a later date. They couldn't even take their eyes off her for a few seconds these days without having to quickly pry something forbidden from her curious little fingers. She’d even managed to keep all that dark hair he so loved to mess with. Nothing better than a toothy baby with a faux Mohawk.

“At least Brenna’s predictable.”

In the past year alone she’d managed to find her voice, her feet and to grow - against all odds - into a relatively healthy and happy little girl. There were still a few minor hiccups, like her heart murmur, but nothing they couldn't deal with. “I mean it’s not like I can just jump on a dating website or something, and the women that come looking for me? Not so great. See where I'm going with this? I can’t even bring them home to meet her because I'm terrified I'll wake up to find Ciara’s face plastered all over the front page of the New York Times. I don’t even want to think about the kind of headlines they’d run with…” No, no he was keeping his little girl away from prying eyes for as long as he could manage without giving her some kind of complex.

Siobhán finally relinquished her crossword puzzle, gently setting it to one side before slowly rising from her seat and crossing the distance between them. Short though he might have been this woman was shorter, and yet somehow she still managed to intimidate him. For a few seconds Tony was afraid she might slap him upside the head but after a minute or two of staring him down she reached up to lay a gentle hand upon his shoulder.

“Tony,” So she had heard him! “Life is a cup of tea, it’s all in how you make it and now - if you don’t mind - I'm going to put the kettle on before you can legitimise any other god-awful arguments where my daughter is concerned. Coffee?” Oh, she was a sly one. Tony nodded yes whilst contemplating an appropriately sassy response. As she turned to exit the living area he forgot his indoor voice and called after her.

“I thought you people didn't believe in divorce!”

No sooner had he done so than he instantly came to regret it.

“You were never married,” Siobhán laughed as baby Ciara began to wail. How had he managed to forget that she was still snoozing? This was exactly the sort of thing she needed a mother for - to protect her from idiots like him!

“Aww, hun!” he cooed apologetically, hurrying across to gather her up in his arms as her grandmother disappeared from sight. In a perfect world she would have snuggled close and taken comfort in his embrace. In the real world she was more his daughter than he cared to admit sometimes and, instead, chose to continue wailing whilst attempting to shove the entirety of her tiny fist into his open mouth as he spoke. Thankfully he now had lots of experience in avoiding these sort of attacks.

“Did Daddy scare you? I'm sorry. Come on. Cheer up Half-Pint. Let’s go see if we can’t use those crocodile tears to score some of Granny’s soda bread, yeah?” In the time it had taken for him to speak Ciara had managed to get a firm grasp of his hair and flail, causing him to wince.

“Giddy-up, huh?” 

* * *

_"Sir, if I may?_ ”

“Yeah buddy?”

“ _This is a terrible idea._ ”

Tony couldn't argue with that. It was almost half-eight, Ciara was slumbering away in her crib and Siobhán had retired for the night after giving him a rather thorough talking-to. One did not need to be a rocket scientist to figure she was unimpressed. Still he couldn't help but feel like he had to do something if only to assuage his own doubts before they swallowed him whole. “She’s late,” he sighed. “Not even fashionably late. We’re talking ‘missed the ball, tripped down the stairs and ended up stuck in a rotting pumpkin shell’ late. What the hell is she playing at?”

If this was some kind of joke he sure as Hell wasn't laughing. After everything he’d risked to arrange this meeting he’d been hoping that Brenna would have sense enough to take it seriously. Especially given he’d gone to the effort of arranging the perfect evening for the two of them. First dinner, then they could talk business and hope that dessert would be enough to get rid of the bitter taste that would leave in their mouths. They didn't have to get back together - Tony wasn't going to presume that was a possibility - but if he could just organise some sort of roster for them perhaps Ciara could still benefit from some one-on-one time with her biological mother. Just the two of them. And JARVIS. “I mean seriously? All that money and she couldn't buy herself a cell-phone?”

It would take a special kind of idiot to trust a woman so willing to sell her own daughter. For all he knew this was all a part of some scheme to kidnap Ciara and ransom her back to him. That’s why he had Happy watching some variety of British period drama - with headphones - in the nursery.

Just as he was about to give up and call it a night a faint knocking sound caught his attention. JARVIS, anticipating his response, quickly chimed in with: _“Sir, Ms. Quinn is at the entrance.”_ Tony couldn’t help it. Finally, she was here, and a mischievous little grin tugged at the corner of his lips. “ _I believe it may be wise to lead her away from the nursery, sir._ ” Huh? “ _She appears to be intoxicated and I fear she may not be capable of maintaining the low volume necessary to ensure Little Madam remains undisturbed._ "

"Well, shit."

JARVIS hadn't been kidding when he'd told Tony that Brenna appeared to be intoxicated. By the time he'd made his way to the front entrance she was bent over and puking into his garden. He was not impressed. There had seemed little point in attempting to hold any kind of mature adult discussion with the woman. Instead he'd gently taken her by the hand - cursing under his breath - and led her into one of the guest bedrooms where she'd promptly emptied the contents of her stomach into a waste basket. Eventually he'd managed to get her cleaned up and into the nearest bed before heading to the workshop to vent his frustrations on his latest pet project. 

* * *

_"Sir?"_

After a long night spent working out his anger by working on his much-loved 1932 Ford Flathead Roadster Tony had somehow managed to pass out hunched over his workbench. If not for JARVIS and his rather urgent tone Tony might have stayed that way until well into the afternoon. As it was he offered a noncommittal grunt before moving to peel his face away from the cool surface that resided beneath it.

 _"Sir, I believe you may want to check in on Little Madam in the nursery."_ That got his attention. With all the grace of a labouring hippopotamus he shot bolt-upright, staggering to one side before getting his act together and stumbling towards the door. _Ciara_. He'd left her alone in the same building as the ticking time-bomb that was her mother! A flurry of curse words left his lips as he made his way through the door, up the stairs and near sprinted towards the nursery just in time to hear his daughter cry out and her grandmother scream. For the second time in his life he felt time stand still but this time his heart wasn't all aflutter with love for his newborn babe - it was frozen in fear.

What had he done?

As he entered the nursery he saw red, literally, dribbling from his daughter's chin as her grandmother tried frantically to keep her from screaming. It wasn't immediately obvious what had led to her injuries but the sight of Brenna looking nonplussed to one side of the crib whilst Siobhán fired off something in what he could only assume was her native tongue left his blood boiling. One night. The banshee had been here one night and already his daughter was suffering for it. "Get out," he muttered, clenching his jaw.

As Siobhán handed Ciara to him he discovered the cause of the bleeding. She'd somehow managed to split her lip. Tony didn't even want to know how. All he wanted was for Brenna to leave before he lost his temper. The last thing he needed was to was upset Ciara any more than was absolutely necessary. As she nuzzled into his shoulder - bleeding onto his shirt and babbling what almost sounded like "dadai" - he finally found the resolve to do what he ought to have done from the get-go and start following the advice he'd been so eager to ignore.

"Please, just get out Brenna. Don't come back. Don't call me. Ever. Just leave."

Placing a firm hand on his daughter's back he turned and exited the nursery, moving towards the bathroom as she continued to sob against him. It could have been worse but, then, if he had have listened to Siobhán - to his own instincts - it could have been avoided all together. "Hey, it's okay princess. Just a little scratch, yeah?" Her little body shook against him and his heart broke. "JARVIS, buddy, call Doc Campbell. See if you can't get her to make a home visit. Anything she wants. Make it worth her while." Never again.

_"Sir, Mr. Hogan would like your permission to escort Ms. Quinn from the premises."_

"Make it so." 

* * *

"So, yeah, basically - _surprise!_ " 

Colonel James Rupert Rhodes looked from his friend, self-confessed genius billionaire playboy philanthropist Tony Stark, to the little girl tugging at his jeans in obvious disbelief. Although he knew that the deceit - having lied about pending military contracts - wasn't entirely necessary, this wasn't the sort of news that Tony wanted to break to his best friend over the phone. Unfortunately he hadn't really considered the consequences of telling him almost twelve months too late. "No? _Nothing_? Really?" 

He took his daughter gently by the arm, coaxing her into waving at their guest in an attempt to garner some sort of response -anything - but apparently the shock of Tony having successfully reproduced was proving far too much to handle. Ciara giggled as Tony wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, and came to rest his chin atop her curly black mop of hair. After everything that had happened with Brenna, he and Siobhán had discussed a genuine need for some positive role-models in Ciara's life which had then led to the question of godparents.

Happy was, of course, the obvious choice. The man had driven her home from the hospital and doted on her like it was nobody's business. Picking a godmother had not proved quite so simple. As most of the women in Tony's life - barring Ciara's grandmother - had proven to be money-sucking leeches at best, and harpies at worst, there seemed only one viable option.

"What do you think? Godmother? Yes? No? God-mummy maybe? _Fairy_ god-mummy?"

Ciara's giggles escalated in volume as he continued to ramble. 

"You have got to be kidding me." 

"Nope, see, she doesn't have an _actual_ mother and I figure you're always - you know - mothering me? How 'bout it?"

If Ciara couldn't have a mother he could, at the very least, give her a family. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I almost lost track of where I was going with this chapter. Almost. 
> 
> I just want to make a note that this is all happening prior to the first Iron Man movie. Ciara was born in the year 2000- so after meeting Aldrich Killian - which is why the lovely Pepper Potts hasn't appeared yet. Hopefully she'll make an appearance in the next chapter. Unless my muses decide otherwise. Again, thank you so much for all the love this fic is getting. It's crazy inspiring. I'm kind of curious if there's anything you guys would like to see added, events-wise, so let me know!
> 
> Current side-projects planned: Baby 'Vengers and Imaginary Friend Loki!


	5. Pepper Potts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter that proves Happy still needs that raise.

“Dadai, you cheated!” Ciara exclaimed, throwing down her own cards and giving Tony every reason to be glad that he’d had taught her the child-friendly version of the card game they were playing - the one that wouldn't see her cursing to the high heavens every time he attempted to pull the wool over her eyes.

“Say again, Half-Pint?”

When Ciara was right she was right. Still Tony couldn’t help but be just a little impressed - proud, even - that the kid had managed to catch on as quickly as she had. It was amazing how much she’d grown over the past six years, and in how many different ways. Amazing and, to be frank, a little terrifying. Gone were the days where his numerous screw-ups would remain undetected, unspoken of, or quickly forgotten. Now she noticed everything and there was nothing worse than having a six-year-old question your judgement.

Except, perhaps, knowing she was probably right to do so.

“You said you played three Kings, Dadai. You _can’t_ have played three Kings. That’s _impossible!_ ” she insisted somewhat petulantly, pouting and taking a moment to blow a stray curl from her line of sight before continuing on to explain why. It never had been enough for her to simply state the facts as they were. Ciara didn’t just need people to know that she was right - she needed them to understand _why_ she was right. Like father like daughter, he supposed. If she was going to inherit anything it might as well be his conceit.

Better that than his self-destructive tendencies.

“There are only _four_ Kings and I already played _two_ , remember? That means you _can’t_ have played three Kings which means that you’re lying…” she paused, looking thoughtful for a moment. As Ciara sat quietly, brow furrowed as she contemplated the depths of her father’s depravity, Tony couldn’t help but laugh at the intensity of her expression. It was just a game, really, but if he hadn’t known any better he might have thought the fate of the world was at stake. “Or you added more cards to the deck! That’s cheating too! Oh, _double-cheat_!”

Were the three cards he’d played all _technically_ Kings? No. They were not but, in the time it had taken her to realise, he had managed to construct a rather elaborate explanation as to why it should still be considered as  a legitimate move. An explanation involving Kings, Queens and Feminism. Siobhan would have loved it or - at the very least - enjoyed watching her granddaughter rip his argument to shreds. There was a part of him that still expected to hear her chuckling at their antics, to see her shaking her head or rolling her eyes as he tried in vain to convince his six-year-old daughter that he would never - _ever_ \- sink so low as to attempt to defraud her in such a fashion.

Unfortunately Ciara wasn't the only one aging. With every year that passed she grew brighter, stronger, whilst her grandmother grew old and frail. When they’d first met Tony could barely keep up with Siobhan, but when they’d parted ways almost two weeks back - when he and Ciara had seen her off to Dublin as per her request - the woman had barely been able to walk without some form of aid. She was going home. That’s what she’d told him, but Tony couldn't help think that it was a far cry from what she’d actually meant. He might have argued the point with her, told her that Malibu _was_ her home, but it had been pretty clear from the get-go that she wasn't changing her mind. 

As much as it had pained Tony to see Siobhán struggling as she was he had hoped that she'd stay on with them. The prospect of life continuing on without her, after all she'd done for him - for his daughter - was near unbearable, and he wasn't the only one that thought so. Ciara had cried herself to sleep every night since her departure. Tony didn't cry. He couldn't afford to cry. Somebody had to put on a strong front for his little girl and he was all she had. Instead he turned to the one thing he knew to numb the pain, to ease the anxiety he felt at having been abandoned again, and that one thing was alcohol. He waited until his daughter was asleep, safe in her bed, and then drank himself into oblivion. It wasn't a permanent solution. Tony wasn't even naive enough to assume it a very _good_ solution, but it was all he had.

"Ouch," Tony laughed. "That's cold, kiddo, ice-cold." 

"But it's not cold - _it's warm!_ " Ciara wrinkled her nose, folding her little arms across her chest and watching on with some confusion as her father shook with laughter. How was it that she managed to take everything he said so literally? There was a small part of him that hoped that this was a phase his little girl never grew out of. "Dadai, it's warm!" she insisted again, crawling across the floor and into Tony's lap as he struggled to keep from busting a gut. Forgotten was the card-game, the cheating, and all thoughts of Siobhán's departure. Instead of lamenting the loss of the closest thing he'd ever had to a mother he pulled Ciara into his arms, tickling her sides and grinning as she squealed with delight. To his knowledge neither he or her biological mother were ticklish and, odd as it was, that gave him hope. He'd always assumed that genetics were everything but perhaps she had a chance to be something better. 

Something more than either of her parents.

Just as he was contemplating releasing Ciara before she ended up with the hiccups - something that always seemed to happen when she was laughing just a little too hard - the door to his office burst open revealing several confused looking security guards and a determined looking red-head. Wait, was that Happy clutching his eyes to one side? Had she actually-  
  
"Mr. Stark? I need to talk to you abo-" the woman trailed off, eyes on Ciara who had grown still in his arms and seemed just as fascinated with the woman as she was with her. Ciara _wasn't_ common knowledge. He hadn't wanted that for her and somehow - using his connections and his unfathomable wealth - he'd managed to keep the media off her scent for this long. Last thing he needed was some trigger-happy hippy with a grudge against Stark Industries turning their eyes on her. Which was also why there had been several security guards assigned to his office _whilst_ she was visiting. Several very well-trained and experienced officers that appeared to have been taken down with one can of...

Tony might have laughed if Ciara hadn't started wailing. 

"Oh, gosh, I - I'm sorry, I had not idea you..." the red-head, quickly distracted from whatever it was she'd deemed important enough to barge in about, knelt to their level looking thoroughly apologetic as his daughter began to sob. Although he still wasn't all that sure what was happening, or what had incited this sort of response from his daughter given she wasn't usually startled so easily, Tony sat quietly and stroked her hair until her semi-coherent sobbing gave him his first clue as to what had actually upset her.

"P-please, don't take him away!"

Take him away? Where, exactly, did Ciara think that this woman was going to take him? 

"Hey, come on Half-Pint! I'm not going anywhere, am I Ms...?"   
  
He glanced over to the red-head who, in return, stumbled over herself before offering her name.   
  
"Potts, Virginia Potts. Again, I am so sorry I just-"

Tony held up a hand to stop her, and she grew quiet. Virginia Potts. Seemed a little too ordinary for a woman that had just fended off some of the best men in his employ with a can of pepper spray. Pepper. Pepper Potts. That had a nice ring to it. Plus, his daughter was a sucker for alliterative names. She'd love it.

"Pepper here isn't taking me anywhere, are you Pepper?" 

Pepper shook her head. She didn't seem at all phased by the nickname. 

"But you cheated!" 

 _Oh_.

"Pepper's an..."   
  
"Accountant, with Stark Industries."   
  
"See, an accountant. She's not here to arrest me, she's just..." 

Actually, he still wasn't entirely sure why she was there but hearing that she wasn't with the police seemed to have settled Ciara down to a mild sniffling. Pepper finally seemed to remember what it was that she'd been so determined to tell Tony about in the first place and handed him a file as if, somehow, that was going to explain why she'd felt it necessary to assault her co-workers. He raised an eyebrow and she cleared her throat as Ciara reached up to tug at the file. "On the third page," Pepper explained. "I tried to tell them but nobody would listen, so I-"

"Wow. Just wow. So, you're-"

"Fired?"

"Wasted in accounting. Fired? Wait, what? Why would I-?" 

According to the file she'd just handed him - and the corrections she'd made to his own calculations - Ms Virginia Potts had probably just saved the company a lot of money and Tony a lot of unnecessary stress. Why on Earth did she think he was going to end up on unemployment benefits? Ciara squirmed, finally managing to get a decent hold on the file he was holding and scattering its contents across the office floor. Tony sighed.

"I think it's time for a nap. Hey, Happy? You okay?" There came a semi-coherent but positive response. It didn't really sound like he was okay, but Tony knew better than to try and argue the point with Happy. Instead he mimed directions to the medical wing to one of the other security guards, who promptly saw to Ciara's fumbling godfather.

Well, that put a dampener on his plans for the night, unless...

"You know you kind of just blinded my baby-sitter. Don't suppose you're any good with kids?" 

\---

"So you're sure you're not a police?"

" _The_ police, Ciara. _The_ police."

"That's dumb, Dadai. She can't be the _entire_ police." 

Tony chuckled, obviously knowing when he was beat. The three of them - including their somewhat reluctant baby-sitter - had piled into his Audi, which had proved problematic at best. After strapping his daughter into her booster seat he'd then had to explain to her why he was getting in the front seat. She had not approved. Ciara wanted to know where Uncle Happy was and why _he_ wasn't driving because, of course, she'd wanted to spend the trip to their airstrip showing Tony how clever she was by demonstrating her newest talent - American Sign Language. Something she'd grown curious about when Siobhán started losing her hearing.

"Okay, compromise - a police _woman_." he offered, "She's not a police woman. Pepper's an accountant. You know, numbers and stuff - you like numbers right?"

Ciara nodded. She loved numbers. 

"Pepper works with numbers."   
  
"Oh" she responded quietly, obviously impressed by this revelation. For a few minutes Tony had almost been naive enough to think that his clarification would be the end of it but, of course, Ciara always had something to add. Fortunately it was nothing too worrying. Not to him anyway. He couldn't honesty say just how comfortable Ms. Potts was with his daughter's impromptu pop quiz, but she _was_ smiling. He found himself drawn back to that smile. How was it that all the women that weren't utterly repulsive - inside and out - were either insane or in his employ? Or both? She couldn't be entirely sane if she'd really thought emptying the better part of a can of pepper spray onto Happy was a really good idea.

He really needed to give Happy a raise. 

"Mr. Stark?"

"Huh, oh. Right. Sorry." 

And they were off.

\---

 "...so you're not leaving the house?" 

"No." 

"But you need me to watch your daughter?" 

"Yes. I'm sorry - I'm confused - what part of this is not okay? The not leaving the house or the you watching Ciara for a few hours?" 

Tony raised an eyebrow, obviously unsure of the direction that their conversation was heading and wondering if he had, perhaps, done something wrong. It wasn't entirely unheard of. Not to mention that this was the first time he'd ever considered leaving the light of his life with someone other than Happy, Rhodey or Siobhán. Oh what he wouldn't give to have Rhodey around these days. Nothing kept Ciara's attention like his child-friendly war stories. He probably should have been a little more worried about that than he actually was. 

"Mr. Star-" 

"Tony." 

Pepper sighed. 

"Alright, _Tony_. When you asked me to baby-sit for you I thought you meant, well, you know..."

"I really hope you weren't taking me literally. I mean -wow." he glanced into the room adjoining to ensure that Ciara was still enthralled by 'Beauty & the Beast' before moving into the kitchen to make himself a coffee. All he'd wanted was to be able to come home and tinker for a bit. Since Siobhán had left he'd so rarely been given the opportunity and he wasn't fool enough to think that allowing Ciara into the workshop was a good idea. Especially now that she was so mobile. And curious. 

Gathering that she was not amused by his poor excuse for a joke the engineer shrugged.

"Look, I'm not a perfect father. I'm not. Sometimes I need a few minutes to myself. I go down to the workshop, tinker, preten-" 

Before he could get any further the phone began to sound and Ciara could be heard scrambling to answer it. There was only one person that ever called on the home line - her grandmother - and she knew it. Tony couldn't help but laugh, almost forgetting his conversation with Ms. Potts for a moment - "Sorry. That must be kiddo's Moraí. Like a grandmother but, you know, Irish. Anyway, what was I saying again? Workshop? Tinkering? I'm begging you - cut me a little slack here, Pep? Hmm? I mean isn't it easier this way? You need me just let JARVIS know and done. I'll even fly you home again and, hey - bonus? I'll throw in a bonus?" She rolled her eyes, smiling, and he knew he'd won. This time. 

Or at least it seemed that way until Ciara came toddling out of the other room with the phone. 

"Dadai, it's for you."  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GISHWHES. LIFE. SORRY. BAD AUTHOR. 
> 
> Now that's out of the way - bad to business as usual! I'm not overly fond of this chapter but yes - must persist! So much I want to write! Thanks for the continued support. Your comments are love <3


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